Thorongil in Gondor
by Chiara Cadrich
Summary: Denethor feels his authority flouted. Who is that officer who leaves him in the shade? Diverse contribution to the Teitho! contests.
1. The northern star

**The northern star**

.oOo.

 _My contribution to the Teitho ! contest of May 2016 du site: « Anonymity »_

.oOo.

 _TA 2979, Pelennor fields_

The watch of Osgiliath had acclaimed the victors of Harad in torchlight. Haloed with the graces of victory, the heroes were proudly marching along the ancient paved avenue, towards the dark blue mass of mighty Mindolluin.

The awaking Pelennor greeted the return of his sons, with a thousand conniving rumors. A stream tinkled a clear tune in the gorse. A cow demanded her morning milking. A gardener cartage, loaded with fragrant fresh fruit, grinded on the pavement when the rooster crows. These familiar voices of their motherland reminded the victorious warriors about the stake of their strains and the value of their losses.

Suddenly a flame lit at the top of Mount Mindolluin- the venerable snowy peak was kindled with the first light of dawn, the reborn sun launched over the bleak summits of Ephel Duath.

An old sergeant, veteran of the Ithilien skirmishes, sang the anthem of the guard, soon to be imitated by all the company:

\- A remmais erchail 'lain! A tirith beraid beleg! A galad erin Celeborn !1

The joyful pride of the men relegated the noxious threat of Mordor, beyond the dark slopes of the Shadows Mountains. Today was a day of celebration. The rangers company of Poros had won a great victory in the southern marches of Ithilien. The Steward had recalled them for a triumph and a deserved rest.

Wealthy Anorien valleys awoke, bathed in radiant hope. At the foot of the flowering fruit trees, wheat tender green and alfalfa silver were rippling under the caress of a spring breeze.

At last the White City appeared, pegged to the monumental rocky rostrum dominated by the majestic citadel of the Stewards. The unfurled banners flapped in the strong morning breeze.

The horns greeted the first hour of the day from the top of the guard tower, as the company of rangers was ordering in tight ranks in front of the high door.

A crowd of townspeople and Pelennor farmers had gathered in the square, to watch the review of the victorious troops. This people, who lived under the everlasting and menacing shadow of Mordor, relished these moments of hope with dignity, and solemnly communed in this respite stolen to fear.

.oOo.

A squad of the citadel guards crossed the high door, while the stars of Elendil were glittering on their black livery. Their gleaming winged helmets lined up on either sides of the gate of Minas Tirith.

Surrounded by his entourage, a solemn character came forward, dressed in the purple tunic of the loremasters. But iron mails could be seen under the surcoat and a large sword hung at his side. Ecthelion, the ruling Steward had appointed his heir2, to honor the victorious companies.

Denethor darted his sharp eyes on the soldiers, whose burnished chainmails and oiled leathers gleamed in the sun. Under the silver standards, the tribune exalted the Dúnedain's vigilance in the legitimate war they led against the savagery of Mordor and duplicity of its Harad allies. The noble aquiline profile of the orator came to life to speak of honor, value, boldness.

\- Remember thoroughly this moment of glory! Engrave brotherhood and hope in your hearts. Cherish this moment, for the time will come soon, where memory must feed our self-sacrifice and renew our courage! Glory to the company of Poros!

While the crowd was cheering, the girls covered the heroes with flowers, and the ranks broke up as the men were joining their families.

.oOo.

Denethor summoned the officers and forestalled, accompanied by his wife and an old man. He uttered the usual compliments and captains renewed before him, the solemn oath of fidelity to Gondor. The son of the steward looked at them sharply, his inquisitive look probing the souls of these men of war.

Satisfied with his inspection, he finally released his scrutiny. As the captains saluted and dispersed, Denethor called the tallest, who had discreetly remained in second place:

\- Captain Thorongil! It is time to report to your lord!

The officer forestalled slowly and pulled the ocher scarf that concealed part of his gaunt face, releasing his jet-black hair. Thorongil's gray steel look gazed in the eye of Denethor:

\- My Lord, we had to take the offensive before the enemy forces could join. That is why I thought we would override...

But Denethor interrupted him dryly:

\- You will answer for this insubordination and the foolish risks you had this company take!

Finduilas put her hand on the arm of her husband, who was quivering with indignation. Although she had recently born a child, the lady moved with grace, and she stepped between the two men who were facing each other:

\- Come on, my friend! The gate square in the breeze of a celebration day, is neither the place nor the time for a council of war! It has been a long time I wanted to meet this gallant man, your father the Steward, praises so fervently! And our host king Thengel3 is eager to greet him!

Denethor bowed to his wife. He was about to grudgingly make the introductions, when Thengel forestalled and hugged Thorongil!

Seeing his host's surprise, the old king laughed:

\- I could not wait to see this guy, a splendid rider with whom I had been hunting orcs many years ago! That was he who, at the head of an eored, saved us from disaster in our campaign in Westmarch!

Denethor had to swallow his pride. Everything seemed to conspire to increase Thorongil's favour at the expense of his own authority. Although he knew that his wife had been right to shorten the confrontation, he could not help himself from blaming her standing up for the foreigner...

The ranger followed the old man who was returning to the citadel, while they were chatting like two old brothers in arms.

\- Time and battles seem to take no toll on you, Thorongil! Indeed I knew you Dunedain were long-lived, but I did not know your northern lines were so strong.

Denethor, full of resentment for his flouted authority, put a strange look on the ranger: so indeed he was a Dunadan, as he already suspected, but furthermore from a high northern lineage...

In Thorongil's wargear, a small star attracted the loremaster's attention: a silver brooch, holding his coat on the shoulder, a beautiful silversmith work of yore, in Fornost Erain... and very much alike the brooch of Isildur's statue in Rath Dinen...

An unbearable foreboding crossed Denethor's subtle mind. Who indeed was Thorongil and what dark designs did his anonymity hide ?

Denethor would have to find out for sure. The loremaster had many sources at his disposal. If he dared, the seeing stone could reveal what he needed to know...

.oOo.

 **NOTES**

1 O proud white walls ! O powerfull watch towers ! O light on the silver tree !

2 _Fragments of the history of the Ruling Stewards of Gondor_

Born in TA 2886, Ecthelion II was the son of Turgon, whom he succeeded in TA 2953. When news of the death of Turgon reached Saruman, the latter declared himself Lord of Isengard and took possession of Orthanc, he strengthened.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, served Ecthelion, as Thorongil, to hide his true identity. He became one of Ecthelion trusted servants and persuaded the Steward to send him destroy the threat of the Corsairs of Umbar. In TA 2980, corsairs were routed, most of their fleet was destroyed and the harbor master was killed. Thorongil also advised Ecthelion to heed the advices of Gandalf, instead of those of Saruman. However, the great esteem and the many honors Ecthelion bestowed on Thorongil and Gandalf, led the jealousy and anger of Prince Denethor, who felt both threatened and despised.

In TA 2976 Denethor married Finduilas of Dol Amroth, a daughter of Prince Adrahil II. The couple had two sons, Boromir in 2978 and Faramir in 2983. In 2984 TA, Ecthelion died at the age of eighty-eight, and his eldest son Denethor II succeeded him. A few years later, in TA 2988, Finduilas died, leaving Denethor deeply bitter.

3 _Fragment of the history of the kings of Rohan_

Thengel was born in 2905, the only son of Fengel. In constant disagreement with his father as a teenager, he went to live in Gondor, where he took service in the armies of the Steward. He married Morwen "steelsheen" of Lossarnach. On the death of his father in 2953, Thengel returned reluctantly to Rohan and became the sixth king. Morwen bore him five children, the second being his only son, Théoden, in 2948. His youngest daughter Théodwyn was the mother of Eomer and Eowyn. Thengel learned Sindarin in Gondor, and this language was that of his home, with the westron. After 27 years of rule, he disappeared in 2980 and his son Théoden succeeded him as the seventeenth king of Rohan.


	2. The price for certainty

**The price for certainty**

.oOo.

 _This fic might have been my answer to the June 2016 Teitho ! challenge : « Pain », if I had written it in time._

 _But this story is also the continuation of my participation to the May Teitho ! challenge._

.oOo.

… _An unbearable foreboding crossed Denethor's subtle mind. Who indeed was Thorongil and what dark designs did his anonymity hide?_

 _Denethor would have to find out for sure. The loremaster had many sources at his disposal…_

.oOo.

 _TA 2979, Minas Tirith Citadel_ _(_ _1_ _)_

Step after step, Denethor climbed the marble spiral staircase leading to Ecthelion's secret chamber(2). The heir was pondering his father's warnings, the Steward, his face serious and drawn, had entrusted to him for his initiation. Pain and fear marked the memory of these words whispered in the dark, yet each climbed stair strengthened Denethor in his resolution.

The Anor stone, perilous relic of the kings, would bend to his will. Was he not the heir of the Stewards, custodian of the regal prerogatives of Gondor? Did he not stand in the fullness of his strength, the prime bulwark of the kingdom, who slept with his armor and watched tirelessly to discipline? Was it not his exalted soul, as hard on himself as on his captains, who, day after day, jealously spurred their ardour?

When he entered the high room, a feeling of pride, solemn and intoxicating, veiled his mind. He had to protect the high destiny of Gondor and the power of the Stewards. He had to know. The palantir (3) would reveal who was this Thorongil.

.oOo.

 _Barad-Dûr_

The stone, smooth and dark under its dome of vigilant shadows, lit with intermittent bursts.

The malevolent attention of the Great Eye turned to its palantir.

Thus the kinglet, carefully entrenched in his fortress, emboldened to consult his stone! No doubt his recent, pitiful and vain victory in Ithilien, had pushed him to some bravado?

The remote Anor stone brightened with clumsy ambitions, scouring the wilderness, venturing to the lands of Mordor and beyond, in erratic arcs that betrayed the foolish presumption of a novice.

The Great Eye gauged this growing will in terms of its own malice. Thus the heir of the Stewards was venturing to probe his father's palantir? It was time to assert the supremacy of the Dark Lord on the seeing stones. The Great Eye wielded its power.

.oOo.

 _Minas Tirith Citadel_

The Anor stone, fretful and whimsical at first, suddenly dozed, as suffocated under a cope of silent shade.

Denethor gathered in himself, penetrating himself with the majesty of his lofty mission. Once his attention focused, he tried to revive the palantir's gaze.

He only got, far away in its center, an indistinct wobbling, like a faint breath of air sweeping a dark ash plain.

The heir of the Stewards contemplated his defeated image flicker on the dumb stone surface. The willful and subtle mind of Denethor had hardly experienced such a failure so far.

This stinging bite to his pride, deepened with a doubt, pernicious and throbbing. Was he not the rightful heir? Was he not worthy? Were not his orders enough for his will to be fullfilled? Why did this Thorongil still keep him in check, here in the Holy of Holies? May it happen there lived worthier than him?

With fury in his heart, Denethor rose to the full height of his pride, arching his will on the inert stone. He raged, ranted and darted compelling imprecations on the sphere, invoking to his aid, glories of the past and promises of the future.

.oOo.

 _Barad-Dûr_

The surge of this legitimate flouted pride destabilized the Great Eye for a moment. The Anor stone opened again to the secrets of Middle Earth.

But the Dark Lord laughed.

For an unforgivable weakness was revealing under the clumsy ranting of Denethor. Doubt as to the past and fear about the future were gnawing the heart of Minas Tirith.

Thus the Great Eye sparingly lent a hand to the febrile investigations of his opponent, here veiling the extent of his power, there loosening his grip, helpfully goading Denethor's doubts.

Of course the visions granted to the Dunadan remained inaccessible to the Great Eye, but Denethor's proud understanding was skewed by a pernicious jealousy, and his subtle discernment tainted with the fear of felony.

.oOo.

 _Minas Tirith Citadel_

In the Anor stone, Thorongil's past displayed in eloquent scenes under Denethor's eager gaze. The thankless toil of the Arnor's rangers revealed its greatness and easements. It took little time for the scholar to recognize the ring of Barahir (4) and draw all the fatal consequences. Thorongil's self-denial and anonymous success still made him more detestable.

Blinded by jealousy, Denethor saw his wife dancing a pavan with the disgraced captain, under the approving eye of his own father. Hatred washed over him. Delivering his suspicious thoughts to the palantir, he ordered the future of this shameful picture, was revealed to him.

Then the face of Finduilas, his beloved wife, appeared to him in the full and serene grace of maturity. Thorongil was roaming miles away, and Denethor rejoiced.

But the sovereign lay on her deathbed, mourned by two young boys. And Denethor recognized himself, overcome by grief at the bedside of her embalmed corpse.

.oOo.

Seeing stones do not lie. But the evil spells of the enemy make their use perilous, even for the wisest.

That sad day, Denethor lost part of his reason, when his faith in the future was taken from him. Such was the odious price to pay for the certainty that his dear wife would remain faithful to him.

Thereafter, the Steward frequently dueled with the Great Eye, but never was he able to discern all the tricks of his enemy.

.oOo.

 **NOTES**

1 Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun, was once the name of the capital of Anorien. It was renamed Minas Tirith, the Watchtower, when its twin city, Minas Ithil, the Moon Tower, capital of Ithilien, fell into the hands of the enemy.

2 Built in TA 1900 by King Calimehtar, the White Tower crowned the citadel of Minas Tirith. Enlarged in TA 2698 by the Steward Ecthelion 1st, it houses the Anor palantir.

3 Sindarin « Palan », afar, and « Tir », look, vision, watch. One of the seven seeing-stones that Elendil brought from Numenor to Ithilien.

4 Barahir's ring is a heirloom of the Kings of Arnor line, Isildur's offspring. At the time of Denethor, Aragorn is wielding it.


	3. New beginnings

**New beginnings**

.oOo.

Thorongil advanced under the dark high vault of Rath Dinen. Several majestic busts, draped in their gypsum robes, stared down at him with a sharp look. His steps awakened the echoing whispers of the Kings, as if each sovereign revealed to his neighbor, the visit of an offspring.

On the death of Ecthelion1, Thorongil had barely been allowed to attend the funeral. Now, before leaving the kingdom, the ranger felt the need for a last farewell to the old ruler.

The line of the Kings and Queens descending from Anarion, along with the Stewards of the house of Mardil, rested in this sanctuary, in the heart of the mountain. High marble-laced canopies protected the granite effigies of the great captains and loremasters, who had held the scepter of Osgiliath. Each stele pictured the struggle of centuries, the long defeat, and the renewed hope of men. A stone banner set with pale gems, ran from arch to arch, as a pledge of an everlasting resistance to Mordor. The hieratic basalt figures seemed to silently order the visitor, to take his share of the glorious burden.

Yet, at the heart of the colonnades of mourning gray, a tiny bright color flame throbbed, caressed by a diaphanous ray, that snowy mount Mindolluin spouted through a skylight. A tiny ruffled shape, curled up on itself, sobbed at the foot of Ecthelion's catafalque.

Small Boromir, crushed by the solemn stony gazes, embraced his flayed legs with his arms, his face hidden in his lap.

Was not this chance meeting, the reason why his inner voice was so insistent Thorongil should pay this last visit? Aragorn smiled sadly at the effigy of Ecthelion, whose eagle gaze seemed to soften.

The ranger sat next to the boy, who was shaking with silent sobs.

Looking into the distance, Thorongil waited until the child would speak by himself.

After a moment, the boy shot him a sideways glance, and discreetly wiped his tears away. Noticing the worn outfit of the adult - battered leather and faded ranger cloak - he asked:

\- Are you leaving, Thorongil?

\- Yes, I came to say goodbye to your grandfather.

\- ... Do you think he can hear us?

\- Of course. And I can hear him, too, sometimes.

\- You can hear him? How?

\- I come here, like you did. I silence the hubbub in my heart. And then I imagine he's quietly sat at his study, among his favourite books, near your grandmother's portrait. Then I listen carefully… and sometimes he speaks to me.

\- Do you think he would speak to me too?

Thorongil put his arm around the small shoulders:

\- I am sure of that. Breath deeply, close your eyes and think about him… Imagine he is listening… What have you come to say to your grand-dad?

Again the locks of his eyes gave way, flooding the childish face:

\- I don't want him to be gone!

Thorongil cuddled the child and waiting he calmed down.

\- Your grandfather would have liked to stay, but his body was too sick. Now he is resting in the palace of heroes...

\- Mom told me. But I miss him so much... He always took me with him. He told me about the Kings. He cared about me. Now he's gone, and Dad's in charge of everything. Mom and Dad do not laugh anymore. They no longer take care of me. So when I'm all alone, I come here...

\- So this is what you wanted to tell your grandfather... You know, you should grant your parents a little time to get used to all this. You know they are sad too. Maybe you should tell them.

\- Well I'm sure that will not change anything at all: since the baby was here, they were only concerned by him! There's no point having a little brother!

\- … I think your grandfather has heard you. And he doesn't completely agree with you. He says a brother is of great use. Listen…

.oOo.

You'll clown. He'll laugh and uproar.

He'll cry hard tears. You'll sing nursery rhymes.

You'll climb trees. He'll follow you, no matter the danger.

He'll fetch some wood. You'll light the fire.

You'll miss your hunting target. He'll set snares.

He'll find mushrooms. You'll discard the poisonous ones.

He'll be hungry. You too.

You'll teach him caution. He'll teach you patience.

You'll let him win the race. He'll let you win at chess.

You'll be hurt. He'll give his blood.

You'll calm his doubts. He'll explain your dreams.

You'll tell him war. He'll tell you peace.

You'll keep his secrets. He'll honor your promises.

You'll show the vault supported by the arch. He'll reveal the vault supporting the stars.

You'll play tactics. He'll study strategy. But none of you will manage to understand girls.

You'll finish his harangues. He'll finish your poems.

You'll take the high. He'll rebel.

You two will quarrel. And will reconcile before your father.

You'll love the bright day. He'll prefer the sweet night.

But together you'll revere Gondor, as necessary to each other, as both to your homeland.

.oOo.

The ranger examined little Boromir's dubious face. The boy had not understood everything.

Yet deep in his pupil, a spark betrayed kind of a jubilation, sort of a feverish expectation, at the prospect of such an exhilarating birthright, such a surprising sharing, and maybe all these petty exciting troubles, which punishments would be eased, since shared!

Thorongil drew the boy up. After a brief heartened look and a little hello from the hand at Ecthelion's severe statue, they went out of the hallowed ground.

\- You know, little brothers, that's sometimes tricky: the more you look after them, the more you want to take care of them! You may have no time left for your parents...

.oOo.

 **NOTES**

1 When their grandfather Ecthelion deceased, Boromir was six years old, and Faramir one year old.


End file.
